Circles Poem by James Fitzpatrick

where a tawdry sun would rise,
we would amble to wash our backs in front of the brown orange
swirls on the crumbling grey earth. Here, we'd dig our toes in to the
slurping, sogging, sucking, wet, stretch to cadge the flickers of colour,
then open the doors to our mind.

As we'd leave, the snuffling, sniffling, snorting, horse heads bowed in
unison, would cleave us from the pull of the ganges, and on to the pebbled normality of grime,
toil and sweating iron, and it's here we begged them drop us on to plumes of
sleeping feather, swallowing us all in hunger

I dream now of devouring the lubricious curves of humanity, the
twisted formed naivety of youth, the cool cheeked horizontal liver of life, the
greener then grass historian.
But alas I can't, for my ragged horsemen have arrived,
to dim my flickering light on the moon's beside table, swirl amid the circles of my faith,
but for the one last time I dig my toes deep in to the gurgling clay, before closing the door to light....